Of Flesh
by Eliptica
Summary: Sasori knows he cannot give Deidara what he truly wants, and it's becoming increasingly more difficult to remain amoral. After all, nothing is more sickening than muttered I Love Yous. [SasDei][DeiIta]


In an organisation like Akatsuki, it's better to hold no morals, and naturally, no judgements.

Sasori knows they aren't inherently evil. Everyone has a reason for what they've done-- Itachi-san slaughtered his clan and his family because he knew the had no future, and Zetsu must eat people because he _has_ to, even if the sight of still living bodies, squirming and begging in his razor-sharp teeth does make the puppet master somewhat uncomfortable.

Right now Deidara is sitting on his bed, spread out upon a pile of puppets as if they were his throne. He looks almost like a child –a spoiled prince, Sasori thinks- as he rocks back and forth in glee, clinging tightly to a dead body. He continues to hug it tightly it even as the bloods leaks from the nin's lifeless throat, staining the back of his wrists. The feeling of flesh against flesh, no matter how dead it is, seems to comfort him.

"It's not a puppet yet, un!" he almost squeals. "Can I take him, Sasori-danna?"

Sasori glances around the room. Hundreds and hundreds of puppets, and thousands and thousands of scrolls. Nodding solemnly he gets back to his work, continuing to adjust the new elbow he's given himself.

Deidara is talking about something excitedly, speaking rapidly and breathlessly, punctuating all his sentences with "un". The red head can see the pistons whirling into motion in Deidara's mind, already wondering the best way to position the body to get the maximum effect, the most carnage, when he detonates it from the inside.

He crouches down next to Sasori now, linking an arm _through_ his stomach and pushing his face near his.

"Danna?"

Sasori lifts his head to meet Deidara's one good eye. The artist has stopped smiling now, and Sasori can read his mind- _"You used to have a real body when we met, un"_ he knows Deidara is thinking.

But the blonde says nothing, and moves his face closer still to _his_ puppet master, pushing his lips forcefully against Sasori's. Sasori never resists, not ever, but this time he opens his mouth a little and lets Deidara in sooner than usual. He doesn't do this very often, and Deidara takes full advantage, pushing closer and closer until he is on the ex-Sand nin, forcing both Deidara's new play-thing and Sasori's tools to drop to the floor.

Deidara shudders. It is horrible and cold; the mouth feels soft, but there is no flesh there. No blood pumps through and no saliva is produced, and the movements aren't fluid, but almost seem forced. Sasori feels the younger man shudder as he kisses him, and he himself experiences no physical sensation other than the desperate warmth from Deidara's stray tongue, and all the while he knows he forces Deidara into these bouts of should-be lust- even if he isn't the one to initiate them.

"You hate my puppet body, don't you?" he murmurs after a while.

Deidara laughs, a spark of amusement lighting up the room, and he smiles fiercely. He's moved away from Sasori a little now, but this time his arms are wrapped around him in an impossible embrace, and his silky Akatsuki cloak has somehow tangled itself around his half-naked danna.

"When I met you I thought you were a twelve year old child, un."

"When I met _you_ I thought you were a girl," he snarls back, angered that Deidara has once again avoided his question.

Reeling back from him, but still clinging dependently to him, and surprised by the sudden flash of anger in his usually empty eyes, Deidara draws up a more serious expression.

"As long as it's your body, un... it's art to me."

Neither of them speak for a long time, and the dim room is relatively silent until Deidara stands. The dead body is once again in his possession, and Sasori's eyes follow him as he leaves.

"Where are you going?" he whispers as Deidara's warm hand reaches for the door handle.

"To see Itachi-san, un... "

The atmosphere of the room suddenly changes with Sasori's private anger. All he can muster to say is "oh," and even then his emotions are embedded clearly into his words. But who is he to judge Deidara? Since he left Sunagakure Sasori decided he would have no morals, and he knows that he cannot possibly give the artist what he craves so deeply. He desperately wants to not be bothered by Deidara's lifestyle, but he can't even manage to pretend any more. There's a drained look on his face, more common place than usual nowadays. In his mind he can already see the sickeningly macabre scene of flesh against flesh, and the solace and softened moans laced on Deidara's lips as the Uchiha's _real_ body presses against his and... and... Sasori quickly shakes the image from his head, and dares to glance up at Deidara. 

He's already half way out of the door, turned towards him with a pitiful look on his face.

"Sasori-danna, you know I-"

Sasori is quick to cut off Deidara's words. He doesn't want to hear them; not now, not ever.

"I know."

"Good. I just wanted you to know, un." His voice is almost apologetic.

"I do too, though," and his voice is barely above a whisper, and he doesn't know whether Deidara has heard him or not.

Back in his usual musky solitude the puppet master continues to degrade his body further.


End file.
